Never Told You, Never Told Anyone
by finnishvixen
Summary: A collection of unseen scenes or drabbles from alternate universes, centering on Sam and Bailey.
1. No Need to Worry

(I own nothing.)

**NO NEED TO WORRY **

BAILEY

Something has been wrong with her for a while now. She seems somehow lost, or rather, there is a subtle agitation in her that wasn't there before. It was there the first brief discussion we had in the hospital, just hours after I'd woken up from the surgery. We were alone and I asked what was wrong, but she evaded the question and remarked how happy she was to see me awake. I let it be for the time being. I didn't have much mental energy to press the issue, so - as some might say - I took the easy way out and decided to follow her advice to focus on the recuperation process.

She came to see me everyday at the hospital and the two weeks I've spent at home. Time has done nothing to lessen her agitation. Sometimes I catch her unawares and she seems dejected, like she's struggling to find the fight in her. Then she glances at me and she regains some of her composure. I look away for fear she'll feel embarrassed at having been caught, but I relish the knowledge that she grows stronger in my presence, from our bond, just as I do.

SAM

I've been waiting, holding my breath, really, but I don't know this yet. The realisation strikes me the moment I'm telling him what happened to me on the day he was shot.

I'd been telling myself that he'd be better off not knowing until he was in perfect health again. I didn't want to cause any setbacks in his recovery, and if I were honest, I knew that once the truth was out, I'd selfishly need his strength to carry me through.

Another reason for stalling was that I'd convinced myself that if I could show him that I'd already coped with the worst of it on my own, it would lessen his pain and grief. But it was a lie, since in my heart of hearts I knew that I could only begin to put it behind me once I'd shared it with him.

Tonight, I'll tell him.

* * *

"Hey Bail!" I call out as I open the door with the spare key. I glance around and see him in the recliner, looking lost in thought. He stirs, looks up and smiles.

"What's on the menu?" I ask, heading to the kitchen island.

"Chicken with honey marinade and goat cheese risotto. Has my long sobriety ended finally?" He watches me with barely masked irritation.

"Hey, it was all on doctor's orders! But since you're returning to work tomorrow, and I cleared it with Grace, I did bring something for us to drink." I bring out a bottle of Pinot Noir. Bailey's Italian upbringing meant that he'd grown up with red wine. He grabs the bottle, his eyebrows rising when he sees the vintage. He shoots a quizzical look at me.

"This is an occasion," I shrug my shoulders and turn to get the glasses. "When are we eating?"

* * *

One hefty dinner and two glasses of wine later, I sit down on the sofa, suddenly feeling anxious now that the hour of revelation is nearly upon us. I get a brief reprieve when he walks to the small table beside the recliner and brings out the humidor. Now it's my turn to give him a silent question.

"I have the all clear, I swear," he replies and sits down beside me. I accept his answer and watch him as he gets ready to smoke his first cigar in weeks. Usually this sight, his manners and contentment, fills me with a sense of warmth, but my mind becomes consumed by the looming discussion.

He putters for a while, before sensing my discomfort. "Sam?"

I draw a deep breath, turn to face him and brace myself. "There's something I need to tell you."

* * *

The tone of her voice fills me with apprehension. I realise that I'm about to find out what has bothered her. Relief and dread wash over me in equal measure.

"Okay."

"I didn't tell you before, because I didn't want to hinder your recuperation." I watch as she struggles to form the words. She casts her eyes down, finds her resolve and looks me in the eyes.

"The day you were shot... Something happened to me." I draw a shallow breath.

"Jack kidnapped me." I suddenly forget how to breathe. She lays her right hand on my arm in a comforting gesture, as if to remind me that she's here with me now, that there's no need to worry.

"Breathe, Bail" she says and as I do so, her words begin to sink in. She'd been in danger, and I feel an irrational twinge of self-loathing, for I hadn't been able to help her, be there for her. All this time she's put my well-being above hers.

She tells me how Jack had used Robin Poole's m.o. to capture her, how she'd woken up with blurry vision in a warehouse full of shelf units and cages, how Jack had taunted her about wanting to be appreciated by her. I marvel at her bravery when she tells me she'd challenged Jack to take her hand. She fills me in on her rescue, that Casper had enlisted the VCTF's help and Jack had eventually cleared her of the charges against her.

At the end of it, there's only one thing to say.

"Sam..."

* * *

He says my name and all my walls come crashing down. I cry out my horror of the kidnapping and my relief that he's still alive, because at the moment I don't know which has terrified me the most. He wraps his arms around me and I cry against his chest until the worst passes.

I withdraw a little from him, and he releases me and hands me a tissue. I smile at him in gratitude.

"That damn wine!" I joke and it elicits a small smile from him. The smile dies down but the love in his eyes stays.

"How have you been?" I hazard a look at him, quickly assessing him to learn if I should gradually change the subject. His expressive eyes stare at me, full of his own conviction of being able to share my burden. I decide to tell the truth.

"Uh well... Not great. But getting there."

"Anything I can do?"

"You're already doing it."

"Anything else I can do?"

"Make me a dream catcher?" I quip before realising that I hadn't told him about the nightmares. I hadn't planned on telling him, but apparently I can't keep anything back now. I guess I needed to tell him, to have him know.

His voice brings me back from my thoughts.

"How bad are they?"

"They're getting better. I don't have them as often as I used to. Time will take care of it, I guess." My words remind him of his own demons. I hesitate a little. I desperately want to know the answer, but I fear that the question will unsettle him.

"How bad are yours?" He stares at me with a slightly startled look.

"How did you know?"

"You had them at the hospital. I was by your bedside a few times."

I recall the moments when he started tossing and turning in his bed, clearly distressed. I would lean close and murmur reassuring words in his ear, and after a while he would usually relax and continue his sleep.

I squeeze his hand as he searches for an answer.

"Pretty bad. My mind is working overtime in my sleep."

"Yeah." He shifts his eyes away, as sadness washes over his face. Now it's my time to pull him to a hug. I feel him relax before long. My right hand travels up to his neck, just to the edge of his hair. It's a bit overgrown.

"We'll get through this together. I know we will."

Now he knows, and I can start to heal. We can start to heal.


	2. For Fear I'll Wear Them on My Sleeve

**FOR FEAR I'LL WEAR THEM ON MY SLEEVE**

I'm gazing at the sculptures you have in your office. Memories of journeys long past. You have shared the origin of each piece, related how you made the decision to buy each item. One reminded you of your mother, another of your girls. One even of the puppy that your neighbor owned before the family moved away.

My eyes drift shut, so I lean my head on the back of the comfortable chair and start tapping along to a song I heard on the radio and that's been on my mind since this morning. Nine long hours. I always feel relaxed in your office, even alone. You possess a calming presence even when you aren't here, an influence that's more than welcome and in very short supply in my life. I've climbed up the walls a hundred times, but I would have done so countless more times were it not for you.

Most of the time I'm on edge because of Jack. When I wake up, my first thought is of Chloe. The second one flies, unbidden, to the madman and whether or not his obsession will intrude upon my life that particular day. I'm always looking over my shoulder, but as I look I catch a glimpse of you hovering behind me, ready to step in should I falter.

Which brings me to the other reason I'm climbing up the walls. A reason that's erasing more and more of my scant peace of mind. You see, there are things that are becoming apparent to me. Some things that are intensifying their hold on me. Things that are unwilling to go quietly into the night.

I hear your voice somewhere close, so I open my eyes and see you talking to Washington. You look so focused, so driven, so full of life that I lean over, wanting to catch whatever you're saying. Like a moth to a flame, one could say. You catch my movement out of the corner of your eye and look over. You offer a small smile, not at all surprised to find me in your office. You focus on the agent again, and a slight pang hits me at the loss.

I wish I could shake off this feeling and carry on as before, before this thing started consuming me.

There are things in which I cannot believe for fear I'll wear them on my sleeve.

I cannot believe you love me.

I cannot believe I love you back.


	3. Placeholder

(I own nothing. This fic shows two missing scenes from Ambition in the Blood and Cycle of Violence, accounting for Ellen Behar's absence between the episodes and ever since the latter one. It's written from her perspective, since it seemed to fit the story. You should know that my kindest name for Ellen is Stupid Slut, so if you actually like the character, be forewarned. On with the show!)

**PLACEHOLDER**

The first two days that Ellen didn't hear from Bailey she was relieved. She'd had a nasty exchange with the daughter of the agent, and she welcomed the respite from the teenage drama. If she'd wanted to babysit teenagers, she would have stayed with Art and had his babies a long time ago. The fact remained, she wasn't exactly Mommy dearest material. She knew this about herself and had pursued the corresponding course in life. The intrusion of the bratty daughter into the living arrangements of her lover had been a rather distasteful development.

On the eve of the second day, she began to wonder, and by the time the evening of the third day rolled around, she'd called Bailey on his home number and cell, to no avail. On the fourth day she called Bailey's office number, finally hearing of what had happened to the man. She placed a call to the Atlanta general hospital immediately to see about their visiting hours. Having learned that the time was from two to five in the afternoon, she took the rest of the day off and headed to the hospital.

On the way there, she wondered how Bailey was faring and whether she'd be allowed to see him. They had been seeing each for three months, but as far as she knew, she wasn't on his living will or even on his contact list. Luckily, the FBI agent she'd talked to (she'd forgotten his name already) had told her where Bailey's room was, so she was able to navigate her way around the wards without anyone asking on what business she was there. Sometimes it helped to look like a woman on a mission.

She reached the right ward and spotted that there was no one manning the desk beside which was the door to the patients. Looking carefully around, she then walked up to the door and peered through the small window of the door. Her gaze swept the floor beyond the door, stopping when she saw Bailey. He was sleeping, his form looking worn and still a bit ashen. She could see he was breathing on his own, but there was a wide band of gauze around his torso. His wound must have been a serious one. Would she be required to do nurse duty on top attending to the troubled daughter?

Before she could breathe a sigh of frustration, she froze a little when she realised that someone was sitting in a curious position beside his bed. Someone of the female persuasion, if the slender figure was anything to go by. Ellen realised that the woman was actually sleeping, resting her head on the side of Bailey's hospital bed. She could see that one of her hands was stretched on the bed, grasping Bailey's lax hand even in her sleep. Ellen noticed a hint of the blonde hair beyond the muted brown trench coat, and took an educated guess that the woman was Sam Waters, Bailey's friend.

She hadn't met the blonde profiler yet, but Bailey had mentioned her in passing once or twice. She'd gleaned that he thought the world of his co-worker. Art, too, had remarked on the woman in a fit of jealous rage after he'd learnt that she was seeing Bailey. "Good luck with your precious boytoy and his shrew of a sidekick," Art had derided the two agents.

Ellen snapped out of her musings. She should make a move before someone from the staff accosted her and she'd be denied access. Before she could push open the doors, however, the blonde on the chair stirred. She raised her head, fished around in her coat pockets for something and then found the item. Ellen noticed that she hadn't let go of Bailey's hand yet. The blonde put the item back into the pocket, then appeared to look at the man for a few seconds before beginning to withdraw her own hand out of his. Ellen could tell that the woman was trying to avoid rousing Bailey, but the movement and rustle of her standing up was enough awaken him.

Ellen had a clear view of Bailey's gaze at the blonde, and it caused a slight sting in her heart. He looked at her with so much... emotion that spoke of years of trust and love. He'd never looked at Ellen in a way that would begin to rival the gaze he was affording the blonde. The woman must have been saying something, for Bailey looked attentive. He smiled and replied something in turn. The female agent pressed a kiss on the side of his mouth, and at the same time, her hand fished a green leaf from the flower arrangement on the bedside table. As she straightened, she tickled the side of his head with the leaf. He laughed and playfully lunged at her, then feigning injury. She evaded his hands with ease and tossed the leaf on his bed when she'd picked up her bag from the foot of the bed. The woman gave Bailey one last look and then turned, heading to the door with a smile on her face.

Ellen backed off from the doors. Suddenly, she was reluctant to see Bailey today. She wasn't equipped to play Florence Nightingale in any shape or form, but despite this, she did want to hear that he'd be okay. She took a few further steps away from the doors, to avoid being seen by Bailey. The blonde walked through the door, still a small smile dancing on her features. Ellen hemmed and hawed a while and the agent walked past her. Summoning her nerve, Ellen started walking behind the woman and cleared her throat. "Excuse me? Are you Sam Waters?"

The blonde swerved on her heels and looked at her curiously. She extended her right hand in a greeting. "I'm Ellen Behar." The agent assessed her quickly and then offered an easy smile, taking her hand. "Yes, I'm Sam. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Likewise." Ellen hesitated a little, unsure of how to proceed. "Is he going to be okay?"

The blonde's eyes flitted to the door, clearly full of relief and affection. "Yes. It was touch and go for a while, but he's out of the woods now." The woman seemed to mull over something. "You know, he was awake just now. Would you like to go see him? There's still fifteen minutes until the visiting hours are over."

The question took Ellen by surprise. "Thank you, but I don't want to disturb him and I must be heading back anyways. I nearly couldn't find my way here, so I've blown most of my lunch hour," she easily lied. The blonde accepted her response at face value, then uttered: "Bailey will be going home tonight. Do you want me to tell him you visited?"

"No, thank you. I'll call him soon. It was nice to meet you."

"You too." The blonde smiled a courteous smile and started down the hallway, turning around when she heard Ellen's departing words: "Take care of him." The agent looked a tiny bit puzzled, but covered well with a tiny nod of her head. She then walked on and turned a corner.

Ellen stood on her marks and watched the blonde go. She then looked back to where Bailey was resting, and let out a sigh. The fact was, the whole situation was a bloody mess. Failed marriage, spiteful soon-to-be former husband, the sweet albeit workaholic lover, his unbearable spawn, and now a potential rival in the picture? She would have to extricate herself out of this mess sooner or later.

* * *

Ellen had been pleased when Bailey called her back and asked her to be his date at a work function. The fact that it was a function honouring that co-worker had irked her, but she decided she owed it to herself to see if her and Bailey's fling from last year could have a solid foundation. She knew that their fling had been a blow below the belt to her former husband, and she had spent the last months figuring herself out, first nursing her wounds and then beginning to heal. Resentments that had lingered with her had now vanished, leaving her unburdened with the events of the past. She looked forward to the next stage of her life.

Ellen watched the agents as they danced together. Bailey was a great dancer, something she had experienced first hand. The pair swayed together with ease, totally in sync and focused on their dance partner without even realising it. Her own dance partner bounced from side to side, finally turning her so she couldn't see the agents any longer. He started making idle chit chat and she obliged. What other choice did she have?

When the song ended, Ellen feigned being thirsty and withdrew from the dance floor. The agents had the good sense to attend to their respective dates. Sam and Rick went over to the children, and Bailey accompanied her back to their table.

Later on, from the little nexus leading to the ladies' room, Ellen spied on the agents when they said goodbye for the night. Sam's daughter had exhausted herself with running around, and so the mother had to take her home. The profiler's date had left earlier, having to take his offspring back to the mother. Bailey picked up the drowsy daughter, allowing the blonde to collect her things. When the woman extended her hands to take the girl, Bailey gestured to her trophy resting on the table. They then started haggling over the keepsake, coupled with fervent head shakes, telegraphed reproaches and exaggerated sighs. They were arguing and loving every minute of it. The intensity of the whole exchange made Ellen realise something.

The blonde had it right when she had mentioned "people who she loved very much" and looked at Bailey. This was a case of both being in love with each other. The kicker was, this was also a case of neither of them knowing it yet. They were still blissfully unaware, content to let things lie and pass the time as close friends. And she couldn't even resent them for it. How do you resent someone so utterly clueless?

Ellen knew that her time with Bailey was over. At one point, she might have had a good chance of capturing his heart, but the moment had passed, and she now had to make a graceful exit. She deserved to be happy, and for her, happiness meant someone who would put her first, not second like Art, or third or fourth like Bailey inevitably would. She sighed, grabbed a vacant wine glass and gulped it down. This might sting a little.

Bailey noticed that Ellen slowed her steps when they reached the lobby. He was on his way to the parking lot, but she took a few steps towards the doors leading to the street. She looked at him, a hint of wistfulness in her eyes. She answered his questioning look: "I'm gonna head this way. It was good seeing you again." He looked slightly baffled, so she explained gently: "You're a great guy. Truly, you are. But this isn't going to work. "

"What makes you say that?" A flicker of incredulous smile swept across her face. For a second, she wondered if she should tell Bailey what she'd realised, effectively shattering the happy cocoon in which he and the profiler were residing. But she couldn't bring herself to be quite that cruel. She was still rather fond of him.

"I just think that... time passed us by. I think I need something else now. I'm sorry." The finality of her tone of voice was enough to convince him. To his credit, he looked disappointed, but he gathered his spirits soon: "Don't be."

She took a good look at the handsome agent. "Be happy, Bailey. You deserve it."

"You too." She nodded at him, offered a small departing smile, turned around and walked outside. She was on her way to find her own happiness, not intrude on the happiness of others.


	4. Too Late for Solutions in the Setting Su

(After the end of "Las Brisas")

**TOO LATE FOR SOLUTIONS IN THE SETTING SUN**

The deranged smile didn't fade from Jack's face. His words, "We're together now", rang in her head, beginning to drown out her senses. She forced herself to take a deep breath, to remain conscious.

What had happened to Bailey? What had Jack done to him? She hadn't heard anything in the last few minutes, no shots, no sounds of a struggle being waged. Had Jack shot him with a poison dart? Or had Jack just used a gun with a silencer, like he had with Tom?

Jack's expression hadn't changed. Sam drew a shuddering breath and shouted out loud: "Bailey!" The name echoed in the cabin and shot out into the open air, to the glaring sunlight. She heard no reply.

Jack was standing in front of the door, still holding the roses. He blocked her view to the car. She moved to the side, keeping her eyes on Jack and being careful to leave the table between them. Looking through the door, she couldn't see to the car after all. She yelled once more: "Bailey!"

Again, she didn't hear anything in the silence that followed.

A small sob escaped her lips. "Oh God."

Jack continued to beam that twisted smile at her. "Didn't I already tell you don't need him?"

She had to get out of this cabin, she had to get to Bailey and get them to safety. Her phone was in the pocket of her jacket, which she'd hung on the frame of a chair on Jack's side of the room. She couldn't get to it.

She looked quickly around the cabin, looking for anything with which she could fend off Jack. The interiors were bare, just a cot, the table and the chairs around it. She noticed a small kitchen cupboard. It would have cutlery. Grabbing two chairs to defend herself with if Jack came closer, she dragged them to the corner, keeping an eye on Jack and ready to bounce if he advanced. He was gazing at her with a sickening look on his face.

She retreated to the corner and quickly opened the cupboards, her hands darting everywhere in the hopes of finding knives. She ransacked every inch within seconds. There was no cutlery to be found. Jack must have taken them away before they arrived.

She turned around to face him once more. He stretched out his left hand. "Come on, let's get going."

She grabbed the chairs and hissed at him: "I am not coming anywhere with you!"

Jack started to approach her. Thinking quickly, she picked up one chair and heaved it at him, then picked up the other one and ran to the window looking to the back of the cabin. She smashed it with the chair, hoping to procure a shard of glass to defend herself with.

The window broke, and so she threw the other chair at Jack, in an effort to deter his progress. He was closer, but he had to sidestep several feet to avoid the chair she'd hurled. She turned her attention to the broken window.

She was just about to wrestle a shard from the glass when she felt a curious sensation in her neck. Her hand flew to the area, and to her horror, she felt a dart sticking out. Realising that Jack had shot her with a tranquillizer dart, she abandoned her efforts at the window. It wouldn't do her any good any more. Her mind buzzing with dread, she started to head to the door. She needed to get to Bailey. Her head drumming, she tried to fight off the lethargy that was engulfing her. Her walk became wobbly, she reached out to the walls to steady her and help her progress.

She was nearly at the door when her feet gave out under her. She tried to crawl on the floor, still needing to reach the door opening and see Bailey. She didn't advance even a foot's length. She kept her eyes fixed to the door, beyond which Bailey lay dying or already dead.

She thought she glimpsed the car before her eyes shuttered shut. _Bailey. Chloe. _


	5. You Saved Your Own Special Friend

(I own nothing. I bring you another brief drabble whilst trying to beat the third chapter of _Wrong Impression_ into submission...)

**YOU SAVED YOUR OWN SPECIAL FRIEND**

Frances, Arianna and Chloe were throwing a Frisbee on a secluded beach. The waves of the turquoise sea lapped at the golden sand, leaves of the palm trees swayed in the soft breeze. The sun was shining from a cloudless azure sky. The girls were laughing as they tried to aim the Frisbee at one another in turn. More often than not, the object would fly off in a tangent or plummet to the ground after brief moments of flight.

Sam and Bailey were frittering away the afternoon inside a lavish bungalow. They were waiting.

She had stationed herself in front of the window with an outlook to the beach, whilst keeping herself in clear view of the clock. She glanced at it every twenty seconds, trying to will herself into relaxing by watching the girls frolicking on the beach. But inevitably, time and time again, her attention would be diverted to the wall clock. He watched as tension ratcheted up within her as the time drew nearer. When there were ten minutes to go, she was a bundle of nerves, her agitation manifesting in the subtle shaking of her hands that wouldn't still no matter what she tried.

He walked up behind her, turned her to face himself and let his hands fall down her arms, to grasp her smaller hands. Testing her, he gently tugged her a few feet away from the window, asking for permission to distract her. She breathed deep and took a step, signalling her consent.

In silence, he led her to their bedroom, positioned himself on the bed so that he was sitting against the head of the bed, and looked at her with invitation in his eyes. She climbed onto the bed and scooted up to the head, allowing him to draw herself into his arms. She lay on his chest, trying to quell the urge to fidget, attempting to not let the worry become insurmountable. She closed her eyes, listening to the hum of the ceiling fan, the whoops of the girls enjoying their pastime outside.

As the hands of the clock neared the hour, the passage of time warranted the attention of them both. He rubbed her back in a calming motion, while she listened to the beating of his heart. She tensed when the clock read 16:00, raising her head to watch it reach 16:01. The minute seemed to take forever. When it had passed, they looked at one another, then trained their eyes on his cell phone on the bedside table, fearing that it'd chirp a message far too soon.

Minutes passed, and their joint anxiety started to dissipate. They both jumped when his cell phone buzzed. He reached for it with his right hand, twining his left hand's fingers with hers. She looked on, trying to read his expression while he read the message. He nodded and gave her the cell phone. She blinked with dry eyes, looking at him before reading the screen herself. After she'd made sense of the letters, she rolled onto her back, stared at the ceiling.

She raised the cell phone again, read the words to make sure she'd comprehended the meaning correctly. The words hadn't changed in the last minute. She let out a breath she'd held onto for eleven years, and as she did so, her shoulders shook a few times, her physical relief overflowing. He noticed the release of her anxiety, scooted down and lay on his side, gently brushing her hair and kissing her cheeks, eyelids, trailing his way to her mouth. He bestowed a kiss of tenderness upon her lips, before she moaned and flopped him over, following him herself and never breaking their contact.

She deepened their kiss; relief, tenderness, passion all making for a heady mix of emotions to be expressed in action. Before long, she started to gain control over her overcome state, which he noticed and allowed for her to withdraw. She placed her head on his chest, gazing into his eyes.

"Thank God it's now over and you're still here, with me." He nodded, sharing her emotions. They had seen it to its final end.

"Let's go join the girls."


	6. Fate Is Now Waiting on Us

(I own nothing [apart from characters originating in this fic]. This is dedicated to Debbie, my kick-ass friend of 12 years and my co-conspirator of all things Profiler and Sam/Bailey!)

**FATE IS NOW WAITING ON US**

_November 1987_

Bailey Malone was gazing at the view from his office window. Late fall in Virginia was as bleak as anywhere, really. Grey rain, bare tree trunks and branches swaying in the downpour... just endless bleakness, it would appear. Maybe enough time hadn't passed to return to work, he mused. The funeral had been a month ago, and after it he'd taken some time off, seemingly to help his wife cope with the terrible twos of their youngest daughter. Time spent at home had seemed to alleviate the recriminations, but now back at work, he could feel them chiding him from every angle.

Someone knocked on the office door and he was forced out of his musings. He called out to the welcome intruder that the door was open and stepped over to the desk, sparing a fleeting glance at the files on it. The visitor entered, and he nodded his head as a sign of welcome to Dean Whitcomb, the student liaison at Quantico. They shook hands. "Agent Malone, I hope I'm not imposing," Whitcomb said affably. Bailey shook his head. He'd always liked the agent, a man who commanded respect by his work ethic and his sensitive feel for possible agent recruits.

Bailey sat down behind his desk, while Whitcomb seated himself on the opposing chair. "How is your family, and your daughter? Was her name... Ayanna?"

Bailey acknowledged the polite enquiry with a smile. "Arianna. They're all great, thank you. How is your wife and married life?"

Whitcomb smiled easily, evidently still basking in the glow of his recent nuptials. "We've enjoyed it, obviously, but then, we're in the honeymoon phase. Everyone keeps telling us that the work will begin in the second year of marriage."

"They aren't wrong. So, what brings you to my neck of the woods?" The pleasantries now out of the way, Bailey got down to business.

Whitcomb's demeanour changed on a dime. They would now enter the awkward stage of the conversation, and he had to take care to not malign any of his fellow workers. "Well, as you know, the '85 recruits have now been assigned their own mentors. And, to be frank, there is a pairing that concerns me. I fear that the recruit won't get... the guidance she would otherwise merit."

Bailey hadn't had time to look over the pairings, as that was the domain of the class director. "Who are you referring to?"

"Chris Wilson and Sam Anderson," the liaison explained with a pointed look, inviting Bailey to draw his own conclusions. Chris Wilson... a good enough profiler in his own right, but not particularly gifted at passing on his expertise, and he had some old-fashioned ideas of female agents in the FBI, to boot. That would cause a few bumps on the way. Bailey remembered Sam Anderson somewhat. A tall blonde who didn't exactly excel at the basic training of an agent but she was passing the courses. She was a psychologist, and so she had shown her forte to be in criminal psychology.

Bailey was curious to know why Whitcomb was bringing this subject to light. "Why are you here? Has Anderson complained?"

The liaison was quick to respond. "No, no, no one has made any waves. It's just... a feeling that I have. I believe that she'll make a gifted profiler, but her progress could be slowed down by ineffective mentoring. Please understand that I am in no way levelling any slights to Agent Wilson. All the same, I am worried that Wilson and Anderson aren't a good fit."

Bailey took a moment to consider Whitcomb's opinion. "So, what? Would you like to me to intervene, assign Anderson to another agent? Any recommendations?"

Whitcomb smiled and raised his eyebrows, giving Bailey an expectant look, sparking understanding for the older agent. The liaison apologised for the inherent surprise: "I'm sorry to have sprung this on you." He paused, gauging Bailey's reaction. "I realise that the timing might be unfortunate, and I understand if you'd rather not accept, coming so soon after Seth's death, but..." Whitcomb's sentence trailed off.

"I'm not asking for a reply right here and now. Take two weeks. Just go to some classes, look at her training records so far, talk to her. Then, let me know what you think. But, you know that I wouldn't come to you with this if I didn't feel the matter to be urgent," he finished with a sincere plea.

Bailey thought over the request. This certainly wasn't something that he'd expected to encounter on his first day back. But, he respected Whitcomb's opinion too much to dismiss it off-hand. He agreed to take a closer look at Anderson.

* * *

The mood among Sam's fellow agents-in-training fired up when SAC Bailey Malone, the co-director of the behavioural science training, made his first appearance in their classes. He entered through the back door and remained seated in the back, trying to pass off his presence as inconspicuous. He didn't interfere with the class, and left as the the instructor was finishing the hour. For the next few weeks, he'd drop in unannounced and just be there, keeping an eye on the proceedings and never uttering a word.

Some speculated that he was doing internal assessment on the instructors, while others claimed that he was refreshing his own profiling methods, which didn't seem out of the realm of possibility, owing to the fate of Agent Seth Harrington. Agent Malone had been his supervising instructor, and the agent's absence after the funeral and during the investigation into Harrington's death at the hands of the serial killer he'd been tracking, had been noted in all the halls of Quantico, though never really voiced out loud.

Agent Malone's forays into the class room didn't merit any special curiosity from Sam Anderson. She wasn't prone to discussing or listening to idle gossip, and so she didn't partake in the feverish speculation for his taciturn participation in the class room. She had never really spoken with the man – the only times they'd conversed with one another had been in the course of classes. It was sort of ironic, since he was the one of the reasons she was training to become a profiler.

She had been in the final stages of writing her doctoral thesis when her friend Ava had dragged her to an FBI recruiting rally held at Emory, their alma mater. The huge lecture hall had been sparsely populated, but still there had been over fifty students in attendance. The FBI had sent three agents to divulge interesting information of their jobs to the possible recruits. The first two had held no interest for Sam, for they expounded on the physical aspects of their job, detailing how they chased down suspects and engaged in altercations with unwilling perps.

The third man had been Agent Malone, who'd spoken of his own field of expertise - profiling. His intellect and passion for his job had shone through in his examples, and he'd riveted his audience with a tale of one of the first serial killers he'd helped to catch.

Sam had been somewhat frustrated with her perceived career course. While the counselling sessions she conducted had been satisfying, lately she'd been feeling as if she could do more. As she listened to Malone's presentation, the solution crystallized in her head. She'd thought it over for three weeks, had consulted Tom and Angel in the mean time, and then she'd sent in her application paperwork.

That had been two years ago. She still loved her chosen field of expertise, but she was growing weary of her mentor, who was exhibiting rather chauvinistic takes on female agents. Maybe if she'd let his attitude slide they might have had an easier go of it, but she had little patience for ignorant fools, and had therefore voiced a few cutting remarks, not endearing herself to her mentor. Two months had passed under his tutelage, and she was becoming frustrated. She kept her opinions to herself, however. Appealing to Wilson's superior hadn't even crossed her mind.

So when she was summoned on a Thursday afternoon to Agent Malone's office, she had no earthly idea of what the meeting would entail. Nor could she guess that it would mark the beginning of a close friendship, which would blossom into love in the years to come.

* * *

Bailey had complied with Whitcomb's request and had spent days surreptitiously sizing up Agent Anderson as well as going over her coursework and psychological evaluation. The blonde was competent and truly gifted, there was no denying that fact, and in due course, she could excel at out-thinking the most devious serial killers. Provided that someone other than Wilson would hone her skills. Bailey had to agree with the liaison's assessment: Wilson and Anderson were not a good fit. That much was evident.

Regardless, he was reluctant to see himself as the agent's possible mentor. He had yet to see how he would get on with the woman. He already held her in great respect, but sometimes personalities clashed through no fault of either party. He believed that Anderson wouldn't want to change from one mentor to another, in particular if the change wouldn't offer obvious benefits from the get-go. Better the devil you know and so forth.

In addition, he was hesitant to take on a mentor role with another future agent so soon after Seth's death. He felt like he needed to regain his footing as an instructor before he could offer anything of value to another trainee.

There was a knock on the door. He glanced at his wrist watch. 3.30 on the dot. She was punctual. He approached the door swiftly and threw it open to greet Anderson.

Sam had taken pains to arrive on time. So much so that she'd ambled up and down the hall a few times before the time for the meeting was up, feigning interest in few paintings adorning the walls.

She offered her hand to Agent Malone, introducing herself. "Agent Malone, I'm Sam Anderson."

They shook one another's hand firmly, pleasant smiles flitting across each face. He gestured for her to enter his office and she stepped inside, her gaze sweeping briefly around the space. Bookshelves full of literature, a comfortable leather chair in the corner, a tidy desk and some wooden works of art, Indonesian, she guessed. He'd gone to sit behind his desk, and she followed his example and sat down on the chair in front of him.

He inspected the woman in front of him. She was strikingly beautiful. Good thing he was happily married. He moved on from his inner musings to the matter at hand. "Thank you for coming, Ms Anderson."

She held up her hand. "Please, call me Sam."

He acquiesced to her request with a nod. "Then you can call me Bailey. I arranged this meeting at the behest of Dean Whitcomb. He came to see me last week on a matter relating to you." She looked surprised, and he continued quickly: "He voiced some concerns he had about you and your mentor, Chris Wilson."

She remained tight-lipped of her own thoughts: "What concerns, specifically?"

"He was of the opinion that while a good agent, Wilson might not be able to foster your gifts to their full potential. What do you think?" he invited her to voice her opinions.

"Sir, I'm at a loss..." she stopped when Bailey held up his finger, commenting: "I believe we're on a first name basis now."

"Very well. I certainly hope that Agent Wilson isn't the one who set this enquiry in motion," she ventured on to say. She didn't want a reputation for being troublesome to work with, and being discarded by a senior agent would send that message loud and clear. That was part of the reason she hadn't made her sentiments on the subject known to anyone.

He shook his head subtly. "Whitcomb was the one who approached me. Wilson has no knowledge of this, and as far as I'm concerned, will never learn of it through me. I wouldn't want to cast aspersions over another agent's career. Even one who is a jackass, plain and simple." She had to tilt her head down to hide her incipient smile. No two ways about it – her favourable first impression of the man seemed to be right. He was quite charming face to face.

"Would you want to change mentors?" She looked to be at a loss for words, clearly taken aback by the question. He afforded her some time to think over his proposition, but he soon sensed that it would do no good to extract an answer out of her this time. He decided that perhaps they should try out a mentor relationship without the pressure of one.

"Tell you what, why don't you take a look at the case files of the killer loose in Indianapolis and then get back to me?" This way, he would get a feel for her methods and would be able to evaluate if she'd benefit from his teachings.

She was startled when she realised he was referring to the killer who'd murdered Harrington. "You want me to contribute to an ongoing investigation?"

He gazed at her with an evaluating gleam in his eyes. "See if anything jumps out at you. No pressure." She looked quite apprehensive, but accepted the case files he offered.

She held the files carefully in her hands, mulling over something. Finally, she uttered: "I'll check back with you next week. Does Tuesday morning work for you?"

He was impressed that she'd chosen a date so soon. Clearly, she was determined to work long hours. "See you then," he agreed.

She crammed the files into her leather case, stood up and spared him a grateful look. "Goodbye, Bailey."

"Bye, Sam." He watched as she closed the door behind him. Quite unexpectedly, he had a good feeling about the suggestion he'd made on a whim. Perhaps things would work out, after all.

* * *

Owing to her lack of experience, Sam's general thoughts on the case were unremarkable, but she offered one piece of insight that he refined and then added to the profile. Bailey now had all the proof he needed to see that she was a diamond in the rough. He used his clout as co-director of the training department and stepped in as Sam's mentor, minimising the damage to both Sam and Wilson's careers whilst giving his own a small dent.

Two and a half years later, they visited Harrington's widow together to inform her that the killer of her husband had been captured.


	7. Always Alone When You're in My Dreams

(I own nothing. This is a prologue to _Wrong Impression, _something I cooked up to commemorate my first year of publishing fanfic here.)

**ALWAYS ALONE WHEN YOU'RE IN MY DREAMS**

_She turned her head to look at him, but some strands of her hair got stuck in his five-day stubble. Both of them swatted her locks from his face. She giggled, looking at her best friend's face affectionately. _

"_You know, I don't think I've ever seen you with a stubble," she mused and reached out to touch the short hairs. _

"_I haven't been able to shave it these past few days," he murmured. _

_Her eyes flitted to the sling that supported his left arm. One physical reminder of the hell they'd just been through. _

"_I know," she breathed out. They shared a look, grateful to have survived the madman. She pressed a gentle kiss on the side of his chin. _

"_Want me to shave it?" she asked, looking thoughtful, resuming her faint caress._

_He bowed his head to look her in the eyes. "Already tired of being wrapped up in my arms?"_

_She shifted her fingers to take a hold of his jaw, then murmured: "No, never. It's just that I do a mean shave. At least, I like to think so," she smirked. _

_He considered her offer, then decided to accept. You have to try something new every day, after all. "Okay, let's see what you've got."_

_They were in the bathroom. She had dragged a chair in there from her bedroom, and she seated him on it. _

_Then, she set about improvising a shaving cream for him. He started to look like he regretted his promise, then tried to get out of it, feigning first utter terror and then sleepiness. She giggled and reminded him that a promise was a promise. _

_To prevent any further trepidations, she whetted a small towel with warm water, pressed on his head so he rested the back of his head on the sink and wrapped the warm towel around his face. _

_She then surprised him massaging his scalp, running her fingers across his head in a delicious friction. He let go of any pretence and just enjoyed the sensation._

"_Still regretting this?" she whispered near his left ear. _

"_No! Don't stop now," he pleaded. She obliged him._

_After a few short minutes, the massage was over, to his infinite disappointment. She dried his face, applied the make-shift cream to his face and neck and picked up the razor. She made a careful, long sweep with the razor, then surprised him by pressing a kiss on the clean skin. She pulled back a bit and remarked: "Perfect. No stubble left." _

_He gazed at her with a look of love and amazement. _

She shifted between the waking world and the dreamland.

Her dream drifted away; she tried to hang onto it, attempted to form it into dreamscape, but it started to fade away quickly, ruthlessly.

She dreamed of him often.

Sometimes the dreams were full of laughter, uplifting; at times, they were mirthless, oppressive.

One thing never changed about the dreams. She was always alone when he was in them.

Curiously, even the happy dreams always left her with a sense of longing, aching with loneliness.

At least that much resembled real life, if nothing else.

The next day she got a call from Grace, informing her of the troubles the task force had run into.

For the next three nights, her dreams were in overdrive.

_THE END_


	8. Wonderful

(Be forewarned: this is an angst-ridden drabble.)

**WONDERFUL **

So, here I am.

Wondering why you didn't come get me one more time.

One last time.

Ah hell, I'm being totally unfair. I guess it would have been my turn. You came for me the time before.

I know it was my turn.

Sorry about that.

But, I left, and you'd be amazed how hard it is to come back.

Looking back on it now... _That_ was hard?

There are no words for _this_.

Jesus. Should've known better. You'd think I would have, with my track record.

I wish I'd told you this before.

But I didn't.

Guess I'll see you next lifetime.

We'll be wonderful then.


	9. Let It Burn through You

(A missing scene from "Shadow of Angels".)

**LET IT BURN THROUGH YOU**

Bailey stepped out of the viewing room at the men's penitentiary and noticed that Nathan had stayed behind to wait for him. Sam nor Coop were nowhere to be seen. She must be crushed.

"What a damn mess," Nathan muttered and ran his hands over his face. "You think Koslowsky will come to his senses?"

Bailey sighed, thinking of the US attorney who'd refused to concede that Keller wasn't Jack. "He will. He may be ignorant, but he isn't stupid. Let's get out of here."

They walked through the cell blocks of the prison in silence, both too defeated to make small talk. Tomorrow, they'd have to start figuring out Jack's latest stunt. They arrived to the dimly lit parking lot beside the penitentiary. The cars of the correctional officers on duty were littered through the lot. Having arrived in three separate cars, they had parked their cars at spaces apart from one another. Bailey said good night to Nathan and made his way to his car in the center of the parking lot.

He slowed down his pace for a second when he spied a shadowy figure leaning against his car. Sam.

She stood still, staring at the ground, her hands tucked underneath one another. Her form belied her tension to his trained eye.

When he reached her, she looked up at him and said in a flat voice: "I need a ride."

"I'm your man."

* * *

She kept quiet during the ride from the pen to Atlanta. Just stared out of the window, not really seeing anything, he guessed. He wondered when her edge would abate, how she would deal with her devastation at this latest turn of events.

He hadn't been too surprised when she requested that he drive her to Olivo's, her favourite bar.

* * *

Ben, the bartender he'd met the last time he'd been here, wasn't working. A man in his mid-forties was serving the few customers spread about the spacious premises. No one was waiting for their drinks at the bar.

Sam didn't waste one moment. "Give me two fingers of your stiffest Scotch and a big glass of water," she shot off and sat down on a bar stool. She looked at him, checking if he wanted anything to drink. She would foot the bill. He shook his head and sat down beside him. "My friend will have a water, too," she ordered for him.

Their drinks were in front of them in two minutes. The bartender put down the glass containing the hard liquor, and she picked it up immediately and downed it all in one go. Her face twisted, her fingers spread out and a shudder ran through her body at the sensation of the Scotch hitting her system. "Disgusting stuff. I'll have another one," she said to the bartender, who'd been rendered speechless by the sight of her quaffing the expensive drink. A pointed look from her had him snapping to and serving his customer.

Sam took a big gulp of her water, and he sipped his, too, waiting for Sam's armour to chip a little.

The bartender poured another shot into her glass. "You know, if you want to get drunk, there are cheaper ways to do it," he couldn't refrain from commenting.

"Not looking to get drunk," she countered, keeping her eyes intent on the glass she was turning around in her hands. Bailey realised that she was hoping that the burning Scotch would snap her to face reality, bring her out of her nervous numbness.

"Thank you," Bailey said to the bartender, dismissing him from their presence.

She took a sip of her water, then began fiddling with some coasters previous customers had used. He gave her her space, looking about the bar but not really paying attention. All of it was focused on his friend sitting next to him.

She picked up her Scotch, this time taking a small taste of it. Her expression soured a little again.

"So, the joke's on me, huh?"

He snapped his head to look at her. "No, it's on _us_." His insistance didn't affect her. She was still a coil of tension, barely hidden beneath her form. She took another sip of her drink.

"Remember after we found out about him using Doctor Nelson's finger prints at the train station, I said to you that he's winning? Well, that was nothing compared to this. Boy, is he winning now!" she finished with a bitter chuckle.

He had to cut through her pity party, re-awaken her fighting spirit. "He's winning for the time being. Are you going to cry uncle or are you going to fight back?" he challenged her.

His words hit home and she turned to him, leveling a pissed-off look at him. She was about to retort when her eyes landed on his glass of water. She regarded it for a moment. Her anger simmered down.

"Touché," she acknowledged his reproach. He could see that her tension had been released. She was now in the present, letting herself to feel her devastation.

"I allowed myself to believe that it was all over," she sighed. "Should've known better," she shook her head and smiled sadly.

He put his left hand on her back. "It will be over, Sam. Not tonight, but someday."

She looked at him, studied his face. Finally, she accepted his words. "Yeah. Someday." They shared a small smile and clinked their glasses of water, toasting to the promise of the final end.


	10. Now That I Am Leaving

(Set after "Reunion II". I own nothing.)**  
**

**NOW THAT I AM LEAVING**

_My beloved Bail,_

_when I gave you those letters earlier today in my office, I really didn't think I would be writing a letter to you. I said goodbye to you in person, as I'd planned. I couldn't wish you farewell in writing. I knew a letter wouldn't and couldn't capture what I needed to get across to you. _

_But, now that I've left the task force and I'm preparing to leave you, I find myself compelled to write to you. To express my feelings more than I dared to in person. Please forgive me for my lack of courage. _

_At that moment in my office, I thought what I felt was simple. Chloe is the most important person in my life, and I need to do what is right by her. I need to take care of her, concentrate on her for the time being. _

_So I thought that I don't belong in the FBI while I take care of Chloe. _

_I thought I could leave. _

_But now, I know that I was wrong, because I already miss you. I probably could leave the FBI. _

_I can't leave you. See, I thought I didn't belong here, and that's probably true. But I do belong with you. _

_I love you. I knew I loved you the harrowing moment Newquay lied to me that you were dead. _

_I almost wish you'd asked me to stay. At the same time, I love that you didn't. I now know the depths of your love for me._

_I'd give anything to be able to stay. You know I can't. _

_You also know that I believe in fate. It was my fate to fall in love with you. I have to believe that fate will also give us a chance to be together in the future. _

_Forgive my ramblings. It's 4.21 in the morning. I wish I could see you read this letter of mine. For the moment, though, I don't have the strength for that. Leaving you once tore me apart. Leaving you for the second time might kill me. _

_So, I'm going to count on fate to bring us together somewhere down the road. _

_After all, you are my fate. I love you. _

_Yours, Sam._


	11. I Heard

(I own nothing. This fic is written from Ellen Behar's perspective, set about a year later from the events of _Placeholder_.)

**I HEARD**

There you are, with her. As I knew you would be. Standing in the queue of a busy cafe on a Sunday.

My hand around the coffee cup goes lax as I sit transfixed, staring at you two. Feeling a twinge of regret or two. Yet, I can't look away.

It's funny how much this sight you're affording still shakes me. It isn't like this is news to me. I saw this coming for miles. One of the reasons I called it quits with you, after all. I wonder if you've pieced that together somewhere along the way.

Well, I should add that my ex – former boyfriend, that is – casually mentioned it to me one day. That you'd gotten married. He didn't notice how belaboured my breathing got there for a while. He was pretty unobservant for a Fed. Yeah. A leopard can't change her spots. Would you want her to?

You step aside her to let a man pass you two, and I catch a glimpse of her body. Her belly is protruding quite noticeably.

No wonder she _glows. _It isn't all down to basking in the light of your love, it seems.

So, a wife and a baby, huh, Malone? And all this in a year since I left you. My, you've certainly kept busy.

I feel an inclination to come up to you, to remind you of me. I push it down. Figuring that it wouldn't accomplish anything.

My throat constricts when you put your arm around her, pull her close and brush her temple with the faintest of kisses.

You never did that with me. We didn't last; something tells me that you two will.

I wish you nothing but the best for you. Both of you. Truly, I do.

I finally tear my eyes away, leave my coffee cup half full on the table and go out round the back.


	12. Only Know You Love Her When You Let Her

_(Slightly angsty.)_

**Only Know You Love Her When You Let Her Go**

Bailey flicked the postcard. Its edges were worn.

It had been waiting for him when he'd returned home from an out-of-town manhunt.

As luck would have it, that time he'd actually been looking forward to arriving home. Frances had come over for an impromptu visit.

She was probably worried for him.

He hadn't been himself since Sam left, and his daughter had picked up on that.

Thus, the visit.

He'd arrived home late, and Frances had kept the home fires burning. She'd cooked for him.

They'd shared a long hug, he'd gestured at her short hair (a bob, that's what she'd called it), and he'd felt a hundred per cent better for her presence.

She'd announced that dinner would be on the table in five minutes.

In that spare time, he'd decided to look at the mail that had accumulated during his absence. Frances had placed them on the usual place, on the kitchen island.

He'd frozen when he'd seen a postcard. It had to be from _her_.

His hand had trembled a bit when he'd reached for the postcard.

He'd glanced at Frances, and she'd had a worried expression on her face. Then, she'd turned away, wanting to afford him some privacy.

He'd taken a deep breath and turned over the card to read the greeting.

He'd had to read a few times in order to commit it to memory. That way, he could let it be for the evening.

And for the duration of Frances' visit.

After his daughter had left, he'd stashed the postcard in his suit case.

That way, it would be with him at all times.

If he sometimes needed a reminder that she was out there in the world, living her life.

After he'd let her go.


	13. If Grown-ups Could Laugh This Slow

(The fort scene from "Power Corrupts".)

**IF GROWN-UPS COULD LAUGH THIS SLOW**

Bailey let Chloe lead the way. To his surprise, she didn't head to the play pen or even her own room. He halted in his steps when she walked into the bathroom, then chuckled. He wouldn't have built a fort in there, but then again, he wasn't an expert in the art. He wondered a little how Sam had let the little girl set up her fort in that space.

All his second guesses evaporated when he laid his eye on the fort, which encompassed nearly the entire bathroom. There was a huge blanket that covered everything over the shower curtain rod from the toilet seat and the sink down to what he guessed was the bath tub. At least he didn't have to worry about bending low to get into the fort.

Quickly, he took a look around. He'd never been in here, as he'd usually used the guest bathroom on his visits. Sure, he'd seen the bathroom before he'd revealed the fire station house to his friend and her family, but after that, he hadn't stepped in here with a foot. He spotted the usual stuff, towels, soaps on the sink, tooth brushes. He smiled at a small picture frame of the three women who lived in the house. The frame sat on a floating shelf between the sink and the bathroom cupboard.

"Come on in, Uncle Bailey!" Chloe had already climbed inside the fort, and was holding one corner of the blanket up for him. He walked closer and guessed that the blanket was in fact one of the safety tarps Angel used when she'd work on her sculptures.

He gingerly entered the fort, taking his time to steady himself into the tub and allow the girl to back away.

"Well, I've never seen a nicer fort," he complimented Chloe when he'd sut down.

Chloe hugged herself, clearly pleased to have a visitor. "I built it with Mommy, but it was my idea," she giggled. "I know! I'll go outside and pretend to knock and then you'll let me in!"

Bailey could only wonder at the bustling energy the girl had. They played that game for ten minutes straight. He was getting slightly uncomfortable, sitting with the faucets digging into his back and the joints in his legs starting to protest, but he didn't have the heart to disrupt the game.

Sam was his saviour. She walked in and announced that playtime was over. "Chlo, it's time for your evening snack, and then it's bedtime."

"No, Mommy, Uncle Bailey's here!" Chloe whined.

"Even so, sweetie," Sam gently insisted.

Chloe's upbeat character won over her impulse to protest. "Can Uncle Bailey tuck me in?" The girl's hopeful gaze darted between him and Sam.

Bailey looked at his friend, wondering if it'd be alright if he stayed longer. He saw nothing but agreement on Sam's face.

"I'd love to," he said sincerely to Chloe, who let out a delighted squeal before running off in the direction of the kitchen.

"Sorry about her enthusiasm. We haven't had visitors for a long time," Sam said with a crooked smile. Then, her smile blossomed into a full one, as if she'd just realised that he'd been sitting inside the make-shift bath tub fort. "Let's get you out of there." She offered him her hand, mindful that he might have trouble getting up. He was grateful for her help.

Chloe was already eating her snack when the grown-ups reached the kitchen. He noticed that Sam had set the table for all of them; there was a cup of coffee and a ham sandwich waiting for him. Sam would eat a bagel with coffee.

When he sat down and watched his friend and her daughter over the round kitchen table, he felt a wave of peace wash over him. Maybe it was the familial setting; maybe it was the fact that he was in the presence of the two people who'd been at his home his first night back from the hospital. Maybe it was his talk with Sam twenty minutes ago and his trip to Chloe's fort.

Whatever it was, he was glad of it.

Chloe started talking to him, and he obliged her with his attention.

Later, he supervised when she brushed her teeth, and picked her pajamas and toys for the night. He read for her until she fell asleep. Then, he turned off the lamp, listened to her peaceful breathing for a minute, and left her to her slumber.

Sometimes, late at night, the silence in his house would get deafening. He'd gotten used to the sounds Frances would make in her room, in the kitchen, the living room.

He walked to the living room, his eyes darting to his jacket. Sam noticed the hesitant question that he hadn't even asked himself.

"Stay a while longer?" Her voice was soft.

Sometimes, his house would seem less a home and more a motel. He would feel disconnected from it. He'd reasoned that it was all down to his trauma, and that he'd eventually get over it. Sooner or later.

But, in the mean time, it felt good to know there was one place where he could relax, feel at home.

Bailey joined Sam on the couch again. "Alright, but I'm not helping you tear down that fort. Chloe would never forgive me."


	14. Placeholder, Part Two

(Coop's perspective from the end of _Venom Part 2_ to the end of _Ambition in the Blood_.)

**PLACEHOLDER, PART TWO**

When she asks to talk to Bailey, you aren't surprised. She would be wondering where he is, what's taking him this long to arrive to her side. He is her boss and friend, after all.

Then, after you've told her that he's fighting for dear life, you can hardly keep up with her as she rushes downstairs, afraid that she might lose her footing and fall down.

You watch her silently break down when she witnesses his prone body on the hospital bed, and you reach out to her. She accepts your gesture, but she doesn't seem to be comforted by it. You know that she's in shock.

When she gently tells you that you'll be spending the night alone, it doesn't faze you. Much. She's been through a terrible ordeal, and she needs time. You're more than happy to give it to her. You love her, after all.

Your love for her is buoyed by her call in the middle of the night. She needs your help. You'll be there for her, no matter what.

She seems better. She appears to be keeping it together. But you know she's falling apart. You tell her that she can lean on you. She assures you that she's fine. You let it go.

Then, Bailey is operated on again, and she's a mess. Out of your reach, again. You ask if she's ready to get back to work. She claims she is. Then, you venture out into what you know is really bothering her, and she shuts you down. That stings, even though you know that this isn't about you, and shouldn't be about you.

You realize that she's holding it all together for his sake. She wants to be strong for him. And, she'll fall apart when he's strong enough to handle it. She won't lean on you.

You wonder if there's always been three people in your relationship, or if it's a recent thing.

In the end, the answer doesn't really matter. The result is the same: you on the outside, looking in.


	15. Then I Knew

(A missing scene from "Into the Abyss")

**THEN I KNEW **

Sam emerged from her office, worried about the raised voices emanating from Bailey's. She witnessed John striding out of their boss's office, heading for his desk, throwing on his jacket, determined to ignore her when she called out his name. He just shook his head, and stormed off.

She watched her coworker go, bewildered, and then walked to Bailey's office. He was standing with his back to the door, in front of his desk.

"Everything okay?" she asked, advancing toward her friend. She had to wait a while for Bailey to snap out of his thoughts. As she got closer, he turned to face her, and she gained a look at what he'd been contemplating on his desk. She took in a FBI badge, and looked to Bailey. He looked like he was still reeling from what had happened. His agent had just quit. She knew that Bailey wouldn't fire someone with John's work performance.

"What happened?" she asked in a quiet voice, full of compassion.

He cast a sad look at the badge, as if that were the last remnant of his friend. "John quit. He said that he'd been unhappy for some time. Things boiled over."

Even though she'd known what he was about to say, she was still stunned. She would never have taken John for a quitter.

She hadn't even noticed that her coworker might have thought of leaving. It would never have even occurred to her. She wondered why. People quit all the time, left to pursue something else, something new. It wasn't anything new under the sun.

Then, she realised the reason. It was because she wouldn't quit. Founding the task force with Bailey had formed a new bond between them. They were in this together, and she couldn't imagine walking away.

She'd take it as long as he could. And, he'd take it as long as she could.

She drew comfort from that thought, from its certainty.

They talked for a while, before she made a move to leave for the night. She'd almost turned her back on him when he murmured: "See you tomorrow?"

She knew what he was really asking. She shot him a reassuring smile, and echoed his words back to him.

_She wouldn't quit._

* * *

Bailey stared at the badge, where John had settled it. After John had announced his resignation and stormed off, he'd stood up and almost gone after his friend. But, he'd thought the better of it. Tempers had been flared, and it would be wiser to let them cool down. So, he'd stopped in his tracks, and unawares, feeling the weight of what had transpired, had been eyeing John's FBI id. Sam brought him back to earth with her question.

She looked like he'd shocked her with his answer. He couldn't blame her; he was shocked, too.

The truth was, he hadn't seen how frustrated his agent, his friend, had been.

He wished he hadn't blown up like he had, but he felt like he'd had just cause. Discussing his daughter with Handleman was out of line, for a friend, at the very least.

Still, he wished they hadn't parted on such bad terms.

He took in Sam, her expression, her form. He was worried for her. For all her protestations to the contrary, he knew she was close to a burnout, and worse, she was brushing off his attempts to help her.

Would she just give up one day and quit, too?

That thought solidified into a ball of anxiety in his gut.

He had to have some little reassurance of her continued presence in his life.

So, he asked her.

She knew what he was asking. She always did, it seemed.

"See you tomorrow."

She smiled, and he knew that she wouldn't just slip away.

He could still reach her.


	16. Only Hate the Road When You're Missing H

(A sequel to _Only Know You Love Her When You Let Her Go)_

**ONLY HATE THE ROAD WHEN YOU'RE MISSING HOME**

After the postcard, there was a silence for a few months. Bailey didn't expect otherwise. He knew that Sam was concentrating on her daughter, and their well-being. He hadn't replied to the postcard, even though he knew their address. He knew instinctively to wait for something more.

That something more arrived nearly three months after the postcard. He'd arrived home early, a fact that managed to surprise even himself. The truth was, work was slow as no case seemed on the verge of breaking, and no new leads were coming in. Might as well head home, and perhaps read something.

His breath had hitched when he'd recognised her hand writing. He hadn't wasted any time in tearing open the envelope and poring over the contents of the letter on the sidewalk. It contained a handwritten sheet from Chloe, and five pictures from Sam.

He gave the photos a quick once-over, and then read the letter.. All the tidings concerned Chloe – her schoolwork, hobbies, and books she'd read. The letter finished with greetings from her mom and a request for a letter of his own to them.

Bailey felt slightly disappointed that Sam hadn't written anything to him, but as he inspected the photos numerous times that night, he came to realize that the pictures were her way of communicating with him. He could live with it.

So, he set about replying to them. With Chloe, he had no trouble in responding. He pressed upon her the importance of arithmetics, complimented her choice of hobbies, and recommended a book or two that he had enjoyed at her age.

With Sam, the matter was trickier. Whereas he composed his reply to Chloe on the following night, he needed a few more days to come up with a way of corresponding with Sam. So many things had been implied, and left unsaid, on their last encounter. Finding an appropriate way to address it, the uncertain state of the relationship, required earnest thought.

Finally, Bailey resorted to sharing poems, short stories, and a few odd sentences from some book or another with Sam. He always chose something that resonated with him, and he trusted her to understand it. Sometimes, he would explain his choice, or write a short epitaph after the piece.

And, so they carried on for almost a year.

During that year, the job started to weigh on him. He managed to cut down on the drinking, mindful of the fact that it wouldn't help in the long run, anyway. He began to look ahead, wonder what his life would be like in a few years. He thought about what he wanted it to be, and then he weighed the odds of it becoming reality.

Bailey vacillated between hope and desolation, and before long, he felt that the time had come to reach closure, one way or another. He and Sam would either come together and start their life, or they would drift apart and find happiness elsewhere. They couldn't remain in stasis any longer.

So, he composed a brief note to Chloe, and only one sentence to Sam.

Then, he waited.

His wait lasted two weeks.

He came home late that night, so tired that he was ready to go to work late the following morning. The street light had burnt out on his side of the road, and so he didn't bother looking through the mail on the sidewalk as he'd been in the habit of doing since the correspondence had started. He walked inside, loosened his tie and got himself a glass of water. Rubbing his eyes, he took a look at the mail.

Once again, and perhaps for the last time, he tore open the envelope with his index finger. The letter contained one photo.

It was of Sam, her hair now shorter than it had been when they'd said goodbye in her office. She was wearing her light blue trench coat over a black dress.

She'd taken the photo herself. And, she was standing in front of his house.

He blinked, the implication hitting him a second later. He rushed to the door, and threw it open.

Sure enough, Sam was standing on the walkway, a few steps from the door. She smiled a little, then took a deep breath, and asked for his compliance with a look. He made a beckoning gesture, and his knees always buckled when she smiled at him, a radiant beam full of love and relief. His heart hammered in his chest as he watched her walk to him.

Sam left a step's distance in between them. She caught his eyes, and he could see that tears were forming in her eyes.

"I've been missing home, too," she said in a stifled voice.

He closed the gap, and kissed the salty tears away.


End file.
